<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>appetence by chadpelle</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30108120">appetence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chadpelle/pseuds/chadpelle'>chadpelle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mayhem (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>0 to 100 real fast bc goddamnit I live up to my usernames, Grinding, Hand Jobs, M/M, Name-Calling, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-04-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:01:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,817</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30108120</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chadpelle/pseuds/chadpelle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Pelle's eyes follow his fingers trailing down Øystein's throat, eyeing him as if he were a fine meal.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Euronymous | Øystein Aarseth/Dead | Per Yngve Ohlin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>appetence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this draft was titled "the grind never stops"</p><p>also this includes Google Translated Swedish. translations are in the end notes, just fair warning I have little to no certainty that they're correct and/or connotationally appropriate lol.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Øystein turns each cheek to the mirror, but does not see the supposed smudge in his corpse paint that Pelle has dragged him to the bathroom for. As he looks to him in the mirror over the sink, Pelle doesn't appear ready to explain himself.</p><p>"There's no smudge," he says.</p><p>Pelle crosses his arms. "No," he says. "There isn't."</p><p>"Are you tired?" Øystein asks, assuming it's the reason he wants to be alone together. It wouldn't be the first time he has pulled him aside during a party, whether to complain to him or to simply rest for a moment.</p><p>"No," he says. He comes to stand behind Øystein, leaning on his hands on either side of the sink counter beside him, feigning a coy smile over his shoulder. "Just wanted to be alone with you."</p><p>"We could leave," Øystein suggests.</p><p>"That's dramatic," he says, straightening up and hooking his thumbs in Øystein's belt to tug his back against his front. "We won't be long."</p><p>Øystein feels a smile pull at his face, moving to turn around in Pelle's arms. "Oh, we won't?"</p><p>Pelle dips his head to kiss him, hands settling on his waist. It must be awkward to hunch over to kiss him while standing together, and he leans away enough to slide a hand between them. Øystein's ass hits the counter again, as Pelle palms him through his jeans. He reaches down to loop his fingers around his wrist, carefully, holding his hand to his crotch as they kiss again, fervent while Pelle works at him.</p><p>Each time Pelle tilts his head back for a breath, he can see the way his corpse paint has been ruined with the movement of their lips. The black coloring his own mouth has transferred to Pelle's face, mingling with the white and staining him grey. He's sure he looks quite the mess himself, but cannot find a moment to care, caught up in the sight of the ruination of Pelle's handsome features.</p><p>"You're a work of art," Pelle says quietly, bringing his free hand up to thumb Øystein's lower lip.</p><p>His face feels suddenly warmed by the contact, and he's thankful for the fact that the paint covers the flush in his cheeks. Pelle's hand comes to rest on the side of his neck, thumb stroking it gently, surely transferring the black paint from his lips.</p><p>"And you, my artist," he replies, difficult with how breathless he feels all of a sudden.</p><p>It is hopelessly romantic, much like many of his thoughts about Pelle, and his heart feels soft despite the room's rising temperature. Before Pelle can respond, Øystein takes him in another kiss — each one begins with a sharp intake of breath; each one feels as though they could not get any closer, not physically at least. Øystein brings his arms around Pelle's shoulders, a hand on the back his neck to keep him near, a sudden neediness for proximity befalling him.</p><p>Pelle parts only to say, "Sit on the counter."</p><p>Øystein is flustered that he must be helped in doing so, not tall enough to slide up onto it. Pelle disperses this embarrassment quick enough, tilting Øystein's chin up to press a kiss under his jaw, another to his low Adam's apple, and another in the dip of his clavicles just above his cropped tank top. Pelle nips along the muscle in his neck, then, all of it quite fast and ungraceful. Øystein tangles his fingers into his hair, which is soft and flowy under his hands, allowing his eyes to fall closed.</p><p>It makes his other senses feel far more pleasant. Pelle's lips, roughened with dried paint which is flecking off, upon his neck; his hands feeling Øystein's torso, slipping under the crop top to brush his nipples; the cold, marbled sink counter underneath him, freezing where his jeans are ripped and exposing the skin of his thighs. He arches into Pelle's touches, putty in his hands when he takes Øystein's hips and pulls him to the edge of the counter, pressing them closer together once again. He straightens up, moving his hair over one shoulder, a silent demand to be kissed.</p><p>And Øystein does. He is not nearly as good at this as his lover — he is, after all, not quite as vampirically inclined. Pelle's fingers press more into his hips and he supposes he must doing something right, nipping gently at the skin of his carotid. It earns a sigh and one of Pelle's hands on the small of his back, bringing him even closer. His skin feels chilled on Øystein's own, encouraging a shiver to go up his spine.</p><p>When he is bored of allowing Øystein to, rather wildly, mark his neck with black and white paint, Pelle tilts his chin up and kisses him proper.</p><p>Pelle leans him back, lifting his own knee onto the counter, half sitting on Øystein's leg. The man pulls away to raise an eyebrow at him.</p><p>"Are you—?"</p><p>Pelle shushes him, kissing him again. His intentions become clearer when he shifts to press himself against Øystein's thigh. Anyone else might rock, might try to find some comfortable way to do such a thing — anyone but Pelle. No, he <em>ruts </em>down on Øystein's thigh, animalistic and raw in nature, tinged with an inkling of enthusiasm and punctuated with sighs into his mouth that enliven Øystein. He grunts into the kiss, sure it sounded absolutely pathetic.</p><p>His hands, which had been idly holding onto Pelle's denim jacket, find their way to his waist. They part, and Pelle must be displeased with his slowness, for he asks, "Are you going to do something anytime soon?"</p><p>"Sorry," Øystein mutters, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth. In truth, he really would like to kiss all over his face, to mar its impressively crisp lines. "You've got me dazed."</p><p>Pelle snickers. "Doesn't take much to daze you, <em>min söta</em>."</p><p>Øystein scoffs. It takes an effort to act nonchalant, considering that Pelle's grinding has not let up in the slightest and he still breathes grunts into his face, completely careless for the conversation he himself began. When he doesn't say anything, and instead presses closer to Pelle, the blonde laughs.</p><p>"No response?" He teases, taking Øystein's chin in one of his hands. "No snide remark, <em>slyna</em>?"</p><p>He swallows at the name, unable to turn and hide his face with Pelle holding it in place. He hadn't expected to be pulled aside, at least not <em>during</em> the afterparty, and kissed senseless and called a whore, and it's thrown him off his game even more than the shift in Pelle's hips which makes it very obvious he's enjoying himself. Pelle half smirks, reminiscent of a villain.</p><p>"Cat got your tongue?"</p><p>"Shut up," Øystein finally manages. He smiles a little when Pelle laughs again, the sound light and airy and music to Øystein's ears.</p><p>He still smiles as he leans forward to kiss Øystein, rougher than before but with a characteristic sloppiness that Pelle adopts when he is happy. The hand on Øystein's hip moves to knead his ass, and he groans, unconcerned with anyone from the party outside who may overhear. They are only one of certainly many more couples fucking around in this place.</p><p><em>Fucking around</em> is much more akin to what Øystein would like to be doing, as Pelle abandons kissing him to simply lean his head against Øystein's. He must know his lips are right by his ear, and must be rather pleased with himself that he's moaning right into it; he must notice the way Øystein shivers, his hands fisting in Pelle's shirt. He uses his grip to angle on his sit bones, until Pelle realizes he's been neglecting Øystein and shifts; now, he grinds on Øystein's hip, and there is a pleasant friction between his crotch and Pelle's thigh as the man moves, one that provokes a groan.</p><p>It all brings the distinct tugging at his middle; from Pelle's hands — now both on his ass — to his lips brushing his ear, to the feel of Pelle's shirt bunched up in his fists, to where his forehead rests on his shoulder, the rough denim fabric of his jacket surely leaving imprints on his skin. The distant chatter of voices and thump of bass, so loud that it would cause one's body to vibrate if too close to the speakers, fill the background of his senses, although the bathroom remains a quiet and deprived haven for their depraved rutting.</p><p>Their own little corner in the midst of the chaos, where it is only Pelle and Øystein and whatever they'd like to do with, or to, each other.</p><p>Just like always.</p><p>With this sentiment, he kisses him again, desperate and urgent. Pelle groans into his mouth, gripping him especially hard, and he realizes with a certain overwhelming pleasure that he's came. He chuckles, taking the opportunity to taunt him as <em>he</em> always does.</p><p>"Eager little slut," he sing-songs, grinning when Pelle turns his cheek, the skin rouged where his paint has faded away. Øystein kisses his jaw, telling him, "I'm not satisfied yet."</p><p>Pelle undoes his belt, and Øystein thinks he might drop to his knees but he doesn't. He stares him down as he gets his cock out, which only serves, he knows, to intimidate him and bring Pelle back to the top. It works; he begins to look away, but with the hand that isn't stroking him, Pelle turns his chin back and holds it firmly in place.</p><p>"Oh, don't be shy <em>now</em>, <em>lilla slampa,</em>" he coos. The shit-eating grin on his face makes it feel hard to swallow.</p><p>The feeling captures Øystein even further as Pelle trails his fingers down his throat, featherlight and slow. His eyes follow his fingers, eyeing Øystein as if he were a fine meal — his brain suddenly feels overworked, and the pulling at his core grows stronger as Pelle leans in to kiss his neck.</p><p>It was nice to have his jeans against him, but the uninterrupted sensation is far better and he wishes Pelle would just kiss him proper; he doesn't like the thought of anyone <em>hearing</em> him, not anyone but Pelle.</p><p>Øystein feels a sharp pain in his neck, before realizing Pelle has bitten him. The surge of adrenaline; the sting of pain; the way his hand moves over his tip and his grip tightens; all deliver the final blow to his resolve. He groans, fingers curling into Pelle's hair as his thighs draw taut and, gradually, relax again. When he regains his wits, Pelle still dotes on his neck, pressing kisses over the mark that is surely forming where he bit him.</p><p>Where he...</p><p>"You bit me," Øystein breathes.</p><p>Pelle is unphased. "I did," he replies, as if it is something anyone might do. "You seem to have liked it."</p><p>Øystein's face warms, and he mutters, "Be quiet."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><i>min söta</i> — my sweet<br/><i>slyna</i> — slut<br/><i>lilla slampa</i> — little slut (thanks for the correction!)</p><p>I'm half asleep while proofreading this so hopefully it isn't half gibberish.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>